


It's Like Stealing History.

by crowbarwolf



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crimes & Criminals, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-05
Updated: 2013-07-05
Packaged: 2017-12-17 18:11:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/870477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crowbarwolf/pseuds/crowbarwolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Art Thief AU. Montparnasse is the one who plans, not Grantaire. Grantaire forges the paintings and handles the authentication. Dealing with a very attractive Interpol agent (he just slept with, oh my god) on his doorstep at arse o'clock in the morning is not part of the job.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Like Stealing History.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [craple](https://archiveofourown.org/users/craple/gifts).



> For craple, who asked for Art Thief AU on tumblr. Sorry darling, this one just got a little bit out of hand.
> 
> A little side-note that this is only fiction. I have no knowledge whatsoever in the fate of the stolen paintings I've mentioned; it's all taken from [this wikipedia page](en.wikipedia.org/wiki/art_theft). Do not call the FBI or the Interpol, I repeat, hold your horses. Any mistakes here are all mine.  
> Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this!

-

 

 _Congregation Leaving the Reformed Church in Nuenen_ is spread wide upon his dining table with four of his most expensive porcelain cups placed at each corner of the canvas when Grantaire finally gets home.

How he doesn't realise that the door to his balcony is open, he's not sure. Although it's the presence of Montparnasse's unmistakable black combat boots and Jehan's blue and white converse perched nearby that does make him sure, and Grantaire considers going back out and shouting _'My flat has been breached!'_ just to avoid the upcoming headache he will have to endure.

But then again, there is a thirty million dollars stolen painting not exactly hidden in his kitchen. Of all the stupid things Grantaire would have done, being called for question by the FBI or the Interpol is not one of them, even if it grants him the mercy of not discussing, as to why said painting is there in the first place, with his friends.

He's also mostly afraid that they would simply fold the canvas like it's nothing – because _hello_ , it's the FBI; Grantaire can't blame their ignorance of the fragile condition of a million dollars painting, such as the Americans – before finding a few more stolen pieces worth more or less the same littered all over his studio on the second floor.

Besides, he has always been a big fan of Van Gogh, among the very few other legendary painters in his list. He takes a large gulp out of his wine flask then stumbles his way into the living room instead of screaming like a girl about a stolen painting on his table.

Grantaire's place is a spacious two-storeys loft located at the top of the building. It has direct access to the roof where he usually spends his nights staring at the stars, willing for inspiration to come through.

Most of the walls are bullet-proof glass instead of plain bricks, with white curtains that he has vandalized over the course of the years out of boredom. One one of the curtains, there is a painting of Hades and Persephone after that night Montparnasse officially asked Jehan out and they had long passionate sex in lieu of a first date.

There are two bedrooms, with a bathroom in each of the room; a kitchen painted in shades of black and white that divides it from the rest of the loft that is otherwise colourful enough to make even the most artistic of people retch.

His studio on the second floor has four large speakers that help him to work in a better mood, and the living room, which is the largest, most spacious place in the loft has his most favorite furniture all in all: a comfortable large navy-blue couch he often occupies after a night of drinking. And the large flat-screen television Bahorel bought for him as a birthday gift, of course, never forget that.

It's a good thing that Grantaire is one of the few lucky painters that truly makes it in life. He managed to sell all of his paintings through the help of Eponine for over three million dollars in the first year, making much more in the next three. No one gets suspicious of the fact that he owns and runs the entire building, and no one dares to scold him for spending his money on liquors instead of new cans of paint or canvases with its easels and new set of brushes.

He paints and he's rich and people simply assume he's eccentric. Grantaire never bothers to correct them, seeing that there's no point in trying to correct them when he's not going to remember all their names or faces, anyway, so it's a waste of energy.

He drops his satchel on the couch, grabs a beer from the fridge, and goes out to the balcony, where Jehan is humming tunelessly under his breath but greets him with a tackle-hug that nearly sends Grantaire off his feet. Laughing as he does it because Jehan has always had a sadistic streak in him like that.

Montparnasse is smoking, predictably. Leaning against the railing as he watches the people going about their business on the street. His sharp angelic feature is more pronounced in a melancholy sorts of way by the dim light of Paris' sun after the rain. Grantaire's fingers itch for his sketchbook or his camera, but, priorities. Grantaire used to have them, before Jehan and Montparnasse, he swears he did.

"So," Grantaire begins, tipping the lid of the can with his thumb and takes a quick sip of his beer. "Care to explain why there's a thirty million dollars masterpiece that is supposedly long gone since 2002 on my kitchen table?" he directs this question to Montparnasse, who gives him the most impressive bitch-face to defeat all others.

Jehan squeals in delight and nuzzles his nose into the crook of Grantaire's neck. Grantaire is oddly reminded of the hyperactive puppy videos he may or may not had laughed at on Youtube last night.

"I asked 'Parnasse to buy it for me as a birthday gift last month," Jehan explains with big innocent eyes. "It just arrived this morning. Beautiful, isn't it? I expect nothing less from Van Gogh, as I expect nothing less from you."

Grantaire stares at him blankly. "Let me get this straight: you want me to forge a masterpiece of Van Gogh's that's been missing for eleven years, searched and tracked by both the FBI and the Interpol, may I add, so you can sell it with higher price and keep the original in your house as part of your collection?"

Jehan blinks, tilts his head. "Yes? Is that so wrong? I mean, we've done this plenty of times before –" understatement of the fucking century, Grantaire thinks, they've been doing this for years since the day they graduated _high school_ , what the ever loving _fuck_. "– and we don't even have to steal this one from the museum like we did with Picasso, right? So that's a plus."

Grantaire continues to stare at the picturesque of innocence in front of him before turning to Montparnasse, telling him, "I question your taste in men," that earns him a halfhearted slap on the back of his head.

Pablo Picasso's _Le pigeon aux petits pois_ is one of the many things Grantaire regrets in his life, since the obnoxious assholes they sold the painting to couldn't keep their mouths shut long enough for the Interpol to forget about it, getting them arrested the following year after the theft.

It was one of the most difficult jobs Grantaire's ever done, too. He longs for its presence to be back in his room. At least it got the cops off their backs for a while, so Grantaire doesn't complain much. He's still bitter about it, though.

"We do not talk about that," Grantaire warns him. "Picasso is like Vegas. We do not talk about Vegas. What happened in Vegas stays in Vegas."

Montparnasse laughs and squashes the butt of his cigarette on the wall beside him. "You've watched _The Hangover_ too many times to be healthy, 'Aire. Had it yourself too many times too." He looks pointedly at the can of beer in Grantaire's hand.

"You'll still do it though, right?" asks Jehan. His eyes have taken a drastic change from happy and innocent to pleading and innocent and looking at Grantaire like he has eaten his Jehanasse (Eponine's pet-name, not his) babies for breakfast or something.

Grantaire feels chastised. This is not the way Grantaire's day is supposed to go. He only wants to have his share of beers for the night, watching a marathon of Luthor or The Sopranos or whatever is playing on Netflix. Not questioning his life choices as a part of the criminal society a few years too late.

Sighing, Grantaire does a quick math of his time in prison, should he get caught, and how many people he has to bribe if it really comes down to it. The answer is too long and not enough money.

"Yeah, okay, I'll do it." Grantaire says. "Let me take a closer look at the painting, then we'll know what to buy first."

Again, Jehan squeals and peppers kisses all over his face while Montparnasse pats his shoulder and hugs him tight. He wonders what they'll do if he comes down to the police station to surrender the painting, then decides it's not worth it. He's probably going to jail for this anyway; might as well do it with a bang.

This is how it begins.

 

-

 

Feuilly who works at the best art-supplier shop in the city has red hair, freckles, and sass that can _kill_ someone or make them go down to their knees begging for mercy. Same difference, Grantaire thinks, only the latter has more sexual undertones in it than the former, something Grantaire knows too well from the first time they met.

That has long passed, though, and Feuilly is Bahorel's now as Bahorel is his. It's a miracle that they haven't killed each other yet in a fit of Ygritte-or-Dany discussion, but Grantaire is as happy for them as he was when he gained his freedom after graduating high school.

Back to the matters at hand; it's three days after Grantaire made sure that the _Congregation Leaving the Reformed Church in Nuenen_ painting that now belongs to Jehan is perfectly legit. They had agreed on a selling price and a 60-40 split, as usual, and after informing Eponine and Bahorel of their current situation, Eponine allowed him to use her money to buy the necessities with a five-percent of Grantaire's share.

It is an honor to him yet an insult to the Great Painter himself, this forgery. Grantaire does not have a perchance for crime like Montparnasse does, but a boy needs to do what he's gotta do for a living. He's sure Van Gogh would understand.

Not that Grantaire is in dire need of money. The more or less ten-million euros that sit untouched in the bank can vouch him for that.

It's just that forging the masterpieces of Great Painters as a hobby sounds terrible and slightly sociopathic, for Grantaire's taste. They have established long ago that the sociopath in their little group of conman _and_ woman that consists of him, 'Parnasse, Jehan, Bahorel, and Eponine; it's Jehan, undeniably and surprisingly.

He can still remember Norway like it was yesterday. Jehan getting bored because Montparnasse wasn't calling him back, dragging Grantaire and Eponine who were in different state of intoxication at the moment to steal the _Blue Dress_. And as if Eponine's response wasn't hysterical enough for his enjoyment, he decided to steal two others, and they ended up throwing it into the nearest trashcan anyway, for the cops to find.

"You look like shit." Feuilly tells him as Grantaire drags his feet bodily into the shop.

Grantaire groans and slouches over the wooden counter in despair. "Thank you Feuilly, you've been very helpful for pointing out the flaw in my appearance."

Last night Grantaire had drunk himself into stupor, trying to talk his conscience out of this folly like he always did at the beginning of any other jobs, but the temptation to recreate a perfect replica of Van Gogh is far too strong for him to ignore.

He's done it before, of course; forging the _Blossoming Chestnut Branches_ in the early two-thousand-eight, finishing it in a flurry of blasphemy and badly-chosen curses after being told to hurry, yet a perfect replica otherwise.

Montparnasse had been very pleased to find that even his colleagues with authenticators of their own had thought of it as 'the real Blossoming Chestnut Branches', giving Grantaire's forgery back to the museum and sold the real one to some rich aristocrats overseas or another.

Feuilly's lips are pursed into thin line. Grantaire can feel his aura of disapproval from where he's trying to will the earth to open up and swallow him whole. "You know what I mean. Did Montparnasse swing by again today? You always drink yourself stupid every time he and Jehan come by."

"That's just my default state of – you know what, no, I'm not talking about this. I am far too hangover to be talking about this." Grantaire groans, once again, and shoves the list to Feuilly's chest. "Can you just please find these stuff for me, love? I really need coffee, the size of my cynicism objectified, if possible."

"That will be the size of _Colosseum_ in Italy or the Russian's military base, I suppose." Feuilly deadpans. "And I'm pretty sure we have most of this in stock, except for the brushes. Sold the set to some rich newbie weeks ago for his girlfriend's birthday."

"What, no, you can't do that to me Feuilly," whines Grantaire, long-suffering. "Do you know what kind of hell 'Ponine is going to give me if she finds out I haven't been sitting my pretty arse at that horrible stool she bought for me last year? Or that the canvas is still empty of my dark imaginative creativity? She will _castrate_ me, Feuilly, for _real_ this time. And you will have no one to buy those ridiculously expensive paints of yours."

"It's not like you can't afford it," Feuilly says. "And I understand her pain more than yours. Try being an editor like me partnered with an author like Bahorel. Getting him to write and finish a draft is much easier than getting him to stop bothering me with _my_ work. Keeps protesting every time I remove one of his more advanced choices of words, I mean. You know how he is."

"I do, actually." Grantaire agrees. "I've done a complete illustration for one of his books, remember? Us being good friends and all. Didn't think it would actually make the top chart, actually. He won a Pulitzer and I won lots and lots of money."

The fact that Bahorel is still enthusiastically involved in the art stealing business despite having won too many awards for his books plus an imaginable sum of money over the years is lost on Grantaire. Then again, Grantaire, who has ten-million something euros untouched in his back account for the past four years, yet still forges as a hobby, isn't really one to judge.

Everybody needs a hobby, after all, and stealing priceless art pieces in famous museums all over the world just happens to be theirs'.

"Yet still you hang out with Jehan and Montparnasse, the both of you." Feuilly continues, good-naturedly this time, a smile playing on the corner of his lips.

"Jehan I can understand; he's young and nice and very artistic with his words and very tactile." Grantaire wants to say a lot of things regarding that; those are lies that shan't be spread further lest Jehan hears of it, uses the knowledge to his advantage and decides to take over the world with it. "But Montparnasse?"

"I don't mean to offend, of course," Feuilly quickly adds, just as Grantaire is about to come to Montparnasse's defense. "I simply mean that – he's on the black list, 'Aire. Ever since that accident with that politician's corruption. I'm just saying that you'll need to be more careful around him."

Grantaire wants to say that it's not just Montparnasse the cops are watching over, that Grantaire's name can probably make it to the list too if it isn't already in there, but he refrains. He's been friends with Feuilly for more than a year, and Grantaire trusts him implicitly with his personal life, yet it is not something both of them should talk about. This is not Grantaire's secret alone. If anyone should tell Feuilly of this, that would be Bahorel.

The only problem with that is Eponine's mile-long trust issues, Montparnasse who is suspicious by nature, and Bahorel himself, who would rather burn the entire world down rather than dragging Feuilly into their business. It's a bad business, that much Grantaire agrees on, and it will only end bad for them if Feuilly decides it's not worth it. They will only add one more person to watch over, one more person to be suspicious of.

Instead, Grantaire smiles a small sad smile and assures him that he will. "For now though: the paints. Chop, chop, clock's ticking. I have work to do and Eponine to please. Go on, I'm pretty sure the Madame didn't pay you for slacking around talking with customers."

"That is exactly what she's paying me for, actually." Feuilly says, with a laugh. "Wait here, yeah? I'll only be a while, pretty sure my boss left this somewhere here..." He disappears into the backroom, mumbling, leaving Grantaire to his intimate moment with the pretty mahogany counter table.

Alone, Grantaire's attention starts shifting from the pattern of the counter to the pamphlets Feuilly keeps by the cashier then the foggy window.

God, or the Weather Man in the case of Grantaire's atheism, seems to have forgotten informing the sky above Paris that it's the early month of August and not October, sacrificing the poor Parisian people including Grantaire himself to the pour of the harsh unforgiving rain.

He has no doubt that his bike, parked underneath the roof right outside the shop, is unusable and soaking wet. The rain wasn't as heavy when he was leaving his loft earlier, and the tell-tale sign of sun peeking shyly from the mass of silver clouds has made him hopeful of the sun smiling upon them in place of cold, heavy rain.

Really, he should've known better. Grantaire and optimism have never been a good combination.

"Fucking hells." Grantaire murmurs.

Mist is forming in the middle of the street, the cold of the weather fogging the shop's window. There's no way he can go home now, not with the weather like this and he only has his soaking bike to go on with, unless he's keen on getting pneumonia and sitting with wet jeans around his thighs which he's not, especially when he's in the middle of a job and Van Gogh's painting is so, so tempting on his kitchen table, at his disposal.

He reconsiders calling Bahorel (Feuilly will be angry for sure if he does, as the two of them are currently working on a new project; interruption is out of question, friends or not) for the seventh times in the past fifteen minutes when the front door's bell chimes merrily followed by quick, heavy footsteps on the wooden-based floor.

To say that Grantaire's knees tremble at the sight of – _this man_ , a statuesque of a human being clad in soaking see-through tight v-neck shirt and sodden equally tight black jeans – some kind of a very sophisticated pornography with the unzipped Oxford hoodie draped over the shirt plus the twinkle of intelligence alight in the man's eyes, is embarrassingly correct.

Grantaire is reaching for the nearest brush and paint without realising it, mouth gaping stupidly and tripping over his feet when the man looks at him like Grantaire isn't going to be walking straight in the next five minutes if he continues to stare. Or kill him violently and dump his body into the Seine, possibly, but Grantaire would like to think his object of lust and newly found muse of art is more tasteful than that. He hopes.

Blond Pornstar AKA Sex God Apollo reincarnated tilts his head at his gaping mouth. "You're staring." He says, to Grantaire, then adds, "It's quite rude." Grantaire shuts his mouth. And gapes some more.

"It's quite – oh, wow. Oh. Well. Pardon me for my rudeness. You went in here all wet like something out of a gay-porn magazine or a very successful porn video. A little bit of staring is expected and perfectly in order, I daresay." _Shut up, shut up, shut the fuck up_ , his mind supplies, where the fucking hell is his brain-to-mouth filter when it's gravely _needed_?

Sex God Apollo – and _wow_ , Grantaire really needs to find a new nickname for Blond Pornstar that doesn't remind him of sex or porn or anything of sorts, really now – frowns disapprovingly at him. "That is sexual harassment," he says.

"I've already apologised beforehand, shut up." Grantaire shoots darkly. "And there wouldn't have been sexual harassment of any sorts if you're not dressed up like you're ready to have an orgy with a bunch of guys in the middle of a storm for warmth. Which should not sound as appealing as it should, not a fan of exhibisionism, believe me. I'm pretty sure you've broken more than seventeen rules of the public law decency, sir, so –"

"Another commentary of sexual harassment," Annoying Hot Guy shoots back. "It's a wonder that you haven't been in jail yet. Tell me, in which way do I look like I'm going to have, and I quote, _an orgy with a bunch of guys in the middle of a storm for warmth_? I am properly dressed like any normal civilian would. And people should be free to express themselves by dressing the way they like without rules to bind them –"

"Oh, so you're okay with woman dressed in their panties walking down the street and fat old men in their thongs outside the comfort of their houses? Are you dumb as you are pretty? Doesn't it upset you that all the hot ones are either taken or just plain blind stupid? And everyone asks why I'm single." Grantaire interjects, his voice full of sarcasm, his mind a river of repeated _'oh shit'_.

Something flashes in the guy's impossibly bright blue eyes, and _there_ it is. _The Look_ , except this time Grantaire is sure the guy will not want to have hate-sex or sex of any kind with him now that he's been labelled as sexual offender, _what is his life, even_ , and it is most likely that his body will end up in the Seine tomorrow.

"I am neither taken nor am I dumb. The colour of my hair does not define me. You're being stereotypical. And the reason you're single is probably – _definitely_ – because you're a raging asshole of epic proportion." Annoying Hot Guy informs him hotly.

"Yeah, tell me something I didn't already know, Hot Guy." Replies Grantaire, as easy as that, and tries to ignore him. It's not working. "I'm not a sex-offender, if that's what you're thinking," he blurts out. "And I'm sorry that I have accidentally verbally sexually harassed you. Zeus will not be pleased, I'm afraid, that I have tainted his Apollo's purity and delicate mind with a simple truthful observation."

Hot Guy looks like he's contemplating Grantaire's method of murder from simple killing to full-blown thirty days of torture.

Well. At least there will be no prison for him in the future. That's a plus, he guesses. Grantaire simply hopes that Montparnasse won't be there to revive him from the dead so he can bitch and torture Grantaire himself for not fulfilling Jehan's wishes. Because. It's Montparnasse. If anyone can revive him from the dead, it's him.

Honestly, those young lovers. Grantaire can never understand them.

Sometimes Grantaire seriously questions Montparnasse's taste in men and regrets the day he turned Montparnasse into a sex machine favoring not only the fairer sex but the same-sex as well. It got him Jehan, while Grantaire has nothing, gets nothing but amazing different one-night stand every night, that's it.

"I'm not sure whether to take that as a compliment or an insult." Hot Guy admits, after a few minutes of awkward silence filled by the steady thrum of the rain outside.

Grantaire's lips quirks. "I'm not sure if that was a compliment or an insult either. My mouth has no filter, it gets me into trouble, more often than not."

"I can tell," Hot Guy says, a hint of smile on his face. "My name is Enjolras."

"A pretty name for a pretty face." Grantaire quips in feigned cheerfulness. "Mine's Grantaire. You can call me R, if you want, but I prefer Grantaire if we're under different circumstances and your clothes are on the floor of my bedroom instead on your person."

Enjolras stares at him, slight smirk playing on the corner of his gorgeous, gorgeous mouth whilst Grantaire embarrasses himself to death. He is saved by the arrival of Feuilly with Grantaire's orders wrapped up in a suitcase in his hands.

"Okay, so all this will cost you a lot, nothing you can't handle of course –"

"Send the bills to 'Ponine, will you?" Grantaire interjects, without looking away from Enjolras' eyes. "Me and my... friend, here need to go. Like, right now."

Feuilly startles to look between them, noticing Enjolras' presence five minutes too late, but he obliges, and Grantaire is so, so thanking him for not commenting about this later.

Enjolras tilts his head. "Unless you have a car, _my friend_ , I don't think I'll be leaving this place so soon." That's not a 'no' for sex, at least.

"I have a bike?" Grantaire offers. "My place isn't so far from here, we can get there in five minutes. I'm curious about what you think of the law of public decency and would like to hear more." At that, Enjolras outright laughs, bringing his whole body into it and driving Grantaire crazier with the way it makes him ten-thousand times more attractive than he already is.

That is how Grantaire ends up with another person on his bed, nearly an hour later, Feuilly's brown leather suitcase containing fresh paints and new brushes placed on his couch.

He remembers every moment precisely; curious hands scrambling down the length of exposed skin, wondering mouths exploring every spot that makes them moan and writhe; loud greedy moans and hurried groans beating the sound of storm and thunders as they race each other to completion.

It's the best lay Grantaire's ever had in his life.

It is also the worst mistake Grantaire's ever made following the chains of events that will soon unravel. Oh, if only he knew.

 

-

 

Courfeyrac stares, jaw-slacked, through the lenses of his binoculars. "Hey, 'Ferre? Have you told Enjolras of our target's information, and does he know where our target is living yet?"

"No, I haven't. Why, what's wrong?" Combeferre calls out from the other room.

"Uh, yeah. About that." Courfeyrac says, licks his lips. "We, uh, probably have a _situation_ here."

 

-

**Author's Note:**

> Since it's summer, if anyone wants to have a story written for them, I, uh, can do that? I'm in the mood, writing random stories to strangers seems like a good way to pass time ;)


End file.
